Poetry       Essays       Letters

Sandy Lyne


Apple Tree

It was the perfect climb
when I was ten— quick step
above the orchard grass,
itself a ladder growing
left and right, sure route
to where the blossoms float,
Through apple scents all
clothed in white, I reached soft
whispers of my heart, and rose
until the branches stopped,
and the sky stepped in, and space
in other orchards breathed,
“Come up.”


© The Estate of Sandford Lyne



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